


Besotted Over Bouillon

by JazzRaft



Series: kitchen disasters [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 10:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/pseuds/JazzRaft
Summary: Ignis doesn't know how to say what he feels, so the best he can do is put it into Prompto's favorite beet-and-meat bouillon. And save him from slicing off a finger in the process.





	Besotted Over Bouillon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aithilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/gifts).

> A [tumblr prompt fill](https://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/186590713312/promnis-slow-down-before-you-slice-off-a) from a list of [kitchen disasters](https://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/186452779569/kitchen-disasters) for [aithilin](https://aithilin.tumblr.com/).

“Slow down before you slice off a finger!”

“Okay, okay! Although, I think a finger might give the dish a little more _body_.”

Iggy’s knife thudded against the cutting board as he directed a look of derision at Prompto, just as sharp as the blade itself. Of course it was wasted on the man, snickering at his own sense of humor like he was the only audience he needed to please.

All joking aside though, he did end up heeding Iggy’s warning. Prompto’s movements braked as abruptly as a chocobo skidding to a hard stop before resuming a safer, meandering trot of the knife through the beetroot. They weren’t in any rush, Ignis had told him that a dozen times over the course of a dozen meals. No matter how much Noctis might try to guilt them by whining about inevitable starvation, there was no _real_ urgent need to hurry.

“I don’t know how you manage not to eat everything as you’re going,” Prompto said, conversationally. He plucked a cut cube of beetroot between thumb and forefinger, staring at it with deep, carnal temptation. “Aren’t you starving after that last fight?”

Ignis was about to enlighten him on the virtues of restraint when his stomach betrayed him with an outraged growl. Prompto grinned, vindicated, and dropped the pieces of beetroot into the pot. He asked, “Is that why chefs are always taste-testing before they’re finished?”

“No,” Ignis insisted – stomach muscles clenching on reflex. “It’s to ensure the dish is worth serving at all.”

“What would you do if it wasn’t? Throw it all away and start over?” When Ignis didn’t say anything, Prompto whined in disbelief. “Even if we hadn’t eaten all day? Igniiisss, come on!”

“Best be sure to follow the recipe to a tee, then.”

Ignis nodded to his notebook, propped up between them on the fold-out table. Prompto frantically ran a finger down the list of instructions to make sure he didn’t mess it up. He did _not _want to be the reason that dinner was delayed tonight. A wicked little smirk tucked itself into Iggy’s cheek, and he resumed the methodical cuts to the shank of bulette meat beneath his hands.

No, he wouldn’t scrap a recipe and start it over if it didn’t turn out perfectly. Not while they were on the road and on the run from Imperial dropships, with limited supplies to boot. He couldn’t afford to be fastidious over campfire dinners. When he was home, in the city, and allowed to rifle through the Citadel’s limitless reserves of kitchen supplies, then he could afford to dash and spill strange combinations into bowls like a mad scientist, only to throw them away in a fit of passion should he find them lacking.

He was never that dramatic, either. Nor that wasteful. Still, it used to put his mind at ease that if he failed to execute a recipe the way he’d pictured it in his head, there was a safety net of sundries to repeat the process with. Out here, in the warm, simmering darkness of Cleigne, he was carving up his last bulette shank and cutting the amount of potatoes called for in the bouillon in half so he would still have some left on reserve for tomorrow.

It wouldn’t taste _exactly_ like the recipe. It wouldn’t be _perfect._ But it would be passable – edible, which was what really mattered – and it would get them through the night. And if it was worse than passable, well, he could always blame it on his sous-chef.

“So,” Prompto sighed, puffing out his anxiety over screwing up the dish as he chopped up the appropriate herbs. “What made you decide on bouillon?”

“It’s one of your favorites, isn’t it? If you’re going to help me cook, it’s only fair that you should make something you like.”

From the corner of his eye, Ignis could see Prompto’s face brighten, like the sun’s glare beaming off of his glasses. “How’d you know it was my favorite?”

“I know everyone’s favorites,” Ignis said, vaguely.

He had years of experience to know Noct’s favorites, and Gladio was easy, but Prompto required a little more sleuthing to truly pin down. Ignis spent more time observing his chattering, chocobo-obsessed friend than anyone else… And not just for his dinner preferences.

“Bet I know your favorites, too,” Prompto said. “Maybe I could try cooking them for you one of these days.”

He said it casually enough, and when Ignis glanced over, his attention was fully dedicated to making certain the herbs were cut to the recipe’s specifications. Ignis forced himself not to read anything more into it.

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t sound confident,” Prompto laughed. “Am I really that bad at this? You can tell me, you know.”

“No,” Ignis said, a little hastily. “I value your help, Prompto. Always.”

He looked over to make sure that Prompto knew he meant it. He wasn’t always the best at expressing his affections – platonic or otherwise – and he knew that Prompto needed to hear it more often than he let on. For that alone, Ignis wanted to be clear.

He met Prompto’s eyes, wide and blue and full of gratitude, and his chest felt light with relief that he’d made him happy with a just a few honest words. Ignis chanced a small smile of his own, daring to push a little more meaning into the sentiment. And just when he thought he saw a little glimmer of _something_ more in his friend’s eyes…

“Damnit!”

Ignis cursed, dropping the knife and swiping his hand back from the cutting board. A small sting of pain bloomed from his fingertip, a sliver of a stripe of blood staining the skin. He grit his teeth in embarrassment, Prompto trying to suppress his laughter beside him. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them that, in Ignis’s strict determination to make sure Prompto didn’t slice off a finger, he’d nearly sliced one off himself.

“Good to know even the best chefs still make the simplest mistakes,” Prompto chuckled.

He took Ignis’s hand in his, pressing a clean washcloth against the small incision. It bled more than it hurt, and it would take a while before it stopped. Ignis glared at the wound, mortified by his own lapse in concentration. His outrage distracted him for just a hair long enough not to feel how his heartbeat had lifted once Prompto’s hands pressed around his own.

“Don’t worry!” Prompto cheered. “I’ll finish dinner. You can count on me, always!”

It was an echo of Iggy’s own sentiment, and he dared to hope that there might be a matching reflection of his true feelings in it, too.

**Author's Note:**

> First ever fic for promnis! I hope I managed to do them justice.


End file.
